


She Burns Like Foxfire

by klin



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, PWP, Second person POV, Set immediately after the alpha kids make it into the game, With a little bit of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 20:23:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klin/pseuds/klin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the night after Dirk saved you. The night after corpse-kissing and red miles and Jake, framed by the glow of an erupting volcano, and that adrenaline rush of a hoverboard ride where, for the first time since your mom died, you touched a real, breathing human.</p><p>After minutes – maybe an hour of you fidgeting and flopping around the bed you share with Jane, Jane turns around, her eyes milky with sleep and cheek creased by the wrinkles of the blankets, and smiles at you. Suddenly, all you want is to kiss her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She Burns Like Foxfire

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a line in You And I Are Disappearing by Yusef Komunyaka.
> 
> "She burns like foxfire  
> in a thigh-shaped valley."

> Be Roxy.

It’s the night after Dirk saved you. The night after corpse-kissing and red miles and Jake, framed by the glow of an erupting volcano, and that adrenaline rush of a hoverboard ride where, for the first time since your mom died, you touched a real, breathing human.

Your fingers still itch with the memory of clinging happily to Dirk and Jane, how their skin was soft and dimpled compared to the carapacians’. Now, you curl your hands into fists as if you can hold onto the memory. You can’t. All feelings are fleeting, but it’s okay because everyone is right there. You never have to be alone again.

You alchemized celebratory drinks for everyone after the initial “what the fuck just happened why is Jake kissing Dirk’s disembodied head where the fuck are we _why is there a volcano_ ” moment. Everyone indulged in a three-martini dinner, and then a round of shots, and then some wine, until even you, Boozehound Lalonde, were a little out of your head.

Now you lay in bed with Janey, the alcohol having long worn off, with inches separating your bodies, and you are so thrilled that you can’t even fathom sleeping. Every time your eyes close, your stomach tingles and jumps with butterflies and moths. You don’t ever want to sleep, you think. You’d rather just stay up forever and ever because if you go to sleep, this all might disappear like it’s really a dream.

After minutes – maybe an hour of you fidgeting and flopping around, Jane turns around, her eyes milky with sleep and cheek creased by the wrinkles of the blankets, and smiles at you. You instantly feel guilty for waking her, and maybe a little happy, too. “Hey,” you say.

“Hi,” she echoes. “Are you okay?” Her little, sleepy smile crooks downward with such sincere concern that you want to jump up and hug her.

“Fuck yes,” you say instead of making such a display. “I’m fucking great.”

Jane reaches out and rests a warm hand on your cold one. “Good,” she says. “I’ve been so worried about you.” She muffles a yawn into the pillow. “Ever since Dirk told me about – about, you know. I didn’t want you to be alone.”

You roll three hundred and sixty degrees, tangling yourself in the blankets and draping yourself halfway across her like kitten on catnip. “Well, I’m not alone now,” you say, punctuated by Jane’s giggles.

“Yeah.” Jane wraps her arms around you and pulls you down beside her. She rests her forehead against yours, and the closeness makes your heart stutter in an entirely unhealthy but exquisite way.

“You’re the best, Janey,” and you mean it.

You both fall silent, and even though you’re still antsy as hell, you settle into Jane’s hold, unwilling to disturb her. It feels great. Novel. Carapacians were never good at hugging – or really anything other than getting into trouble.

At the thought of the Carapacians, you can’t help but reach and subtly – oh, who are you kidding, blatantly check each of Jane’s wrists for a barcode. You run your fingertips along the points of her wrist bones, and then follow the blue tracks of veins up her forearm, feeling for the raised bumps of the barcode, and also, you have to admit, feeling just for the heck of it. Nothing unusual.

“What are you doing?” Jane asks, shifting one of the arms around you to settle it between your bodies as you continue your exploration, despite having quieted your fears.

“Nothing,” you say. “Touching you.”

Her lips part as if she’s going to say something, but after a moment’s pause, they close again into a sad smile. You resent it, a little bit – you’re no broken toy to dote over – but only for a second. Then the knobs of Jane’s knuckles have you intrigued, and you forget about her expression.

Jane curls her hand into a fist so that you can run the pads of your fingers up the peaks and valleys of her knuckles. When you tire of that, you trail as far up her arm as you can before her sleeve stops you, impeding further discovery. You have never hated an article of clothing more.

You shift slightly to switch targets. You graze the length of Jane’s clavicles, and she shivers almost imperceptibly, but you notice. “Sorry,” you say, drawing your hand away. Fuck, you are such a creep.

“No,” she murmurs, “it’s all right.” She tugs your fingers back into place with a reassuring smile. “I understand, Roxy.”

You hum happily at that. “Turn over?” you ask, and she obliges you, rolling over smoothly. You regret it momentarily because you are no longer tangled in her arms, but it’s okay because now you can drag your palm down the curve of her spine – albeit through her shirt – and the way she nestles into you is so, so worth it.

“You’re like a cat,” you tease her, and then you move so that you’re straddling her waist and digging your hands into the knots in her shoulders. She practically purrs.

“Do you like cats?” Jane asks, and she sounds more awake now, which you guess is kind of your fault.

“Fuck yeah,” you agree. Your hands work their way down their back, easing away knots through her shirt. “I had a cat. Do you think cats have dreamselves?”

Jane shrugs beneath you. “Why not?”

After that, silence breathes between you like a sleeping dog. When you reach the small of her back, having exhausted the points of tension, you let your thumbs inch beneath her shirt to settle in that dip. She exhales like a dream, and when you hesitate, she encourages you with that sweet-as-cake-batter voice, “Go on.”

You tug her shirt up to reveal the flat plane of her back, unmarred but for a spattering of freckles along her shoulders. She is frighteningly beautiful, and God, you love her so much. From the peak of her spine, you follow each ridged vertebrae down, and then graze your nails back up. Gooseflesh rises in the wake of your touch, and she is so, so soft that at first, you don’t notice the way her breath hitches every time your touch lingers just above the waistband of her sleep shorts.

You don’t notice, that is, until on your fourth time following the curvature of her spine, her hips jerk slightly and she pushes into your exploring hands. You can’t keep the smirk off your lips – this wasn’t your intent, of course, but you don’t mind anyway. With your hands settled on her hips, you lean forward to ghost your lips against the shell of her ear and whisper, “You're so warm. Maybe you should take your shirt off.”

Jane hesitates, and your heart ricochets against your chest. What if she says no? What if she pushes you off? What if she gets up and leaves? What if she's disgusted by you? You sit back up and are about to level your weight off of her when her voice comes out all crackly and breathless, “Sure.”

Just one word; just “sure,” noncommittal and unenthusiastic in connotation, but “sure” is all you need. Your heart doesn't stop flitting about; if anything, its pace only jumps up a few increments from Pretty Damn Fast to Energizer Bunny Fast. Now that she's agreed, you don't know what to do.

“Maybe,” she adds after your heart has raced a few laps around your other organs, “it would be a little easier for me to do so if you let me sit up.” You can hear the smile in her voice.

You oblige and slide off of her back to plop cross-legged onto the bed. She promptly sits up and grabs the hem of her shirt in preparation to tug it over her head – and hesitates. Your heart practically stops, until you see her cheeks light up with faint blush.

“You're so beautiful,” you say instead of sputtering a self-deprecating apology, and you really mean it. Fuck, she is gorgeous. Like moonlight and cream and, wow, you don't even know what else but you're sure you could come up with fifty million more profound things to compare her to if you weren't so distracted by the way she looks down through her eyelashes and chews on her bottom lip and pulls up her shirt so excruciatingly slowly that you think you might die from anticipation, from the swell of your nerves and heart and miscellaneous inside parts pressing against your lungs.

When she finally shakes her head free of the shirt and sets it down in your lap, you can't help but repeat, “You are so beautiful.” You reach out to brush your thumb across the spattering of freckles on her chest, following the swell of one breath before stopping at the crest of the other.

“Roxy,” she says, and the way her voice dips, warm with affection, pulls your eyes from where they had begun to devour her naked figure. “Kiss me.”

You have never heard Jane so frank and demanding, but who are you to refuse? You lift up onto your knees, scoot a little closer, toss her shirt out of the way, ease one knee between her legs, cup the back of her neck with a barely shaking hand, and finally, finally kiss her.

She tastes like you always imagined – cake batter and chocolate and sweet, sweet, sweet – and it's not long before you're coaxing your tongue into her mouth to better savor her. She makes little noises as she matches your movements, and when you pause to suck her lower lip, you feel her breath catch. When you graze it with you teeth, she pulls away from you with a surprised gasp.

“Sorry, Janey,” you apologize, but this time, you don't mean it. You rest a hand on her upper thigh, running the points of your knuckles up the length of her leg.

“You're facetious,” Jane accuses you. You can't deny it. When you look up from the path your hand is tracing, her eyes soften. “I think –“ she pauses, almost thoughtfully – “that we're a little uneven. Maybe we should fix that.” She looks pointedly at your chest, to the pink cat face embroidered on your pajama shirt.

It takes you a minute to realize her implications, but when you do, you quickly agree, “Fuck yeah, we should.” In moments, you've whipped off your shirt and dumped it unceremoniously on the floor to rest beside Jane's.

You're not sure what to expect next. Hot, lust-driven sex or a sad smile before Jane suggests you both put your shirts back on or more kissing or verbal banter – but when she moves to lay down in the mess of pillows and blankets you have both made of the bed and opens her arms and says, “Come here,” you are sure you would like nothing better.

You fit your body against hers, settling into her arms and wrapping your own around her. Warmth radiates from her skin and you can't resist pressing your cool hands into the small of her back. She fidgets against you, scolding you softly and playfully, until your hands have lost their chill and she congratulates you with a kiss.

A very long, very hot kiss.

You're not sure where Jane learned to kiss, but the way she teases and suckles your tongue and swipes her tongue across your lips when you pull back just slightly for a breath sends jolts of electric heat down your spine and between your legs. Kissing her is slow and easy; you have never been so content with a turtle pace in your life.

Still, you can't help but trail a hand down to her rear. You trace circles there, through her sleep shorts, and then dip just below the waistband. She tenses against you, her kisses slowed even further like sweet molasses until you slip your hand fully down the back of her shorts and press your palm against her ass. “Roxy,” she murmurs like an exhalation as you squeeze and knead her pillow-soft skin.

Her lips surge back against yours, and for a startling moment, she kisses you with _hunger_. However, it only takes seconds before she keys down her pace, and you want nothing more than to make her kiss you again with that same need.

You slide your hand lower; it's a stretch, and your hand is in danger of cramping at such an awkward angle, but it's worth it to be able to reach backwards between her legs and lightly, slowly swipe the flat of your nail across her folds. A sharp intake of breath sounds suspiciously like a moan, so you repeat the motion: this time with the pad of your finger and with a little more pressure, finally pausing to tease her entrance.

“Roxy,” she says your name for the third time that evening, but this time, it's more of a whine than anything. Her lips hover a breath away from yours, just barely parted.

You pull your hand out from the back of her shorts and instead settle it between the two of you. When you press against her slit through the thin fabric, she recaptures your lips in a kiss: slow, languid, and breathless.

You find her clit and press your thumb against it; her hips jerk, her nails dig crescent moons into your back, and her kiss falters again.

You shift until you can pull her shorts down far enough that they're no longer an imposition. Then you cup her cunt, palm resting against her clit and fingers curving with her folds. You don't move, instead letting her fidget against you until she apparently can't stand your teasing anymore and crashes your mouths back together.

Your teeth bump against hers, but neither of you mind. Jane sets a needy pace, swallowing up everything you give her and roughly, clumsily demanding more. You give it to her.

You reposition your hand and slowly stroke two fingers up her slit. When you bump against the little bundle at her peak, Jane whimpers into your mouth, and when you press firm, decisive circles into her clit, she gasps and swallows your breath.

You're halfway through spelling your name in short strokes on her clit when she pulls out of your kiss with a soft, strained cry. You finish up the “x” and “y,” eliciting more delicious sounds from her swollen lips.

You spread kisses up the curve of her neck, sucking and grinning at the marks blooming on her cream-pale skin. You tease her earlobe with your front teeth, timing a soft nibble with a particularly stiff finger on her clit. Her hips roll against your hand, demanding more. Instead of obliging, you relieve the button of your attentions and instead slide your fingers downward.

“You're so wet,” you say into the nape of her neck, and she is. Wet and hot and _needy_.

Jane groans. “Don't say that.” She buries her face in your shoulder, pressing soft, closed-mouth kisses against your skin. “Please. Rox.” Jane clamps her legs around your hand as if trapping you there will force you to pleasure her. It doesn't.

You guide her legs back open until you have comfortable access again. You swirl the tip of a finger around her entrance; she's so wet, you bet you could slide in without problem, but you're afraid of hurting her. Despite your own misgivings, she drops a hand down beside yours, folds around your knuckles, and presses against your fingers until you follow her guidance and slip one joint of your finger inside of her.

“More,” her voice is taut as a violin string. All you want is to hear her, so you oblige and press the length of your finger inside of her.

She sighs in relief, like filling her has made her whole, and she all but purrs as you slowly stroke in and out of her. You feel clumsy at first – fingering her is at a much different angle than when you pleasure yourself – but you quickly find a rhythm that turns her purring into moaning.

And then you find the spot that turns her moaning into breathless gasps. You crook your finger and pass over the spot again, and again, and each time, her hips jolt forward and roll against your hand and her voice rises up into a delicious pitch and her whole body is hot, hot, hot against you –

she comes surprisingly quietly, with little more than a soft whine as her entire body presses forward against you, her back arched and skin flushed from her face to her chest. Her insides ripple around your finger, clenching the slim digit. You coax her through her climax until she relaxes into you, releasing a pent-up breath.

You ease your finger out of her and discretely wipe her wetness off on the sheets. She makes a displeased sound at your moving, so you promptly curl your arm around her and scoot in flush against her.

“Rox?” she asks, her voice hazy.

“What, Janey?” You rest your forehead against yours. You're horny as fuck, so wet that it's uncomfortable, but you know she's too blissed out to reciprocate. You don't mind.

“Thank you.”

You smile and hold her a little tighter. “You're welcome.”


End file.
